


[C] Lost but Found

by OneofWebs



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Arguing, Blood, Break Up, Established Relationship, Getting Back Together, Healing, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Injury Recovery, Kidnapping, M/M, Major Character Injury, Making Up, Potions, Rescue, Rescue Missions, Revenge, Swordfighting, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:48:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23051965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneofWebs/pseuds/OneofWebs
Summary: Things weren't supposed to turn out like this, but it was rare that things went according to plan. Jaskier thought that they might have had a life. Once, Geralt might have even believed him. Now, that life is dead and gone. It doesn't take much more than a shouting match to do that. Geralt's past catches up with him, quickly, and if he doesn't do something-Jaskier might be dead and gone, too.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 277





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlooodyMoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlooodyMoon/gifts).



> These recent witcher things and one of my friends not being able to shut up about it have actually led me to watch the series. Finally. I'm very slow, but I did most certainly enjoy it. 
> 
> Thank you daddy netflix for providing this show to us, but I wish you would have done a better job on the timelime. I feel like that one meme guy with the red strings and conspiracy theory stuff going on trying to figure out what happened. (YES i googled it eventually leave me alone).
> 
> Anyway. Hope you enjoy! Comments and kudos are well appreciatd.

Something wonderful had been born, and then it died. There was a time, not long ago, when things were so new and flowery that any song Jaskier could sing was the finest tune, and anything he said was of the sweetest melody. That time had died. Now, it was much more like the shrieking of birds, too early in the morning, or some grating pick of a lute far out of tune. Geralt couldn’t figure out where it had all gone wrong, and frankly, he didn’t care. He just wanted Jaskier  _ gone _ . He wanted him gone as fast as he could go, and he’d made that very clear.

Jaskier’s face twisted up. It was sadness. It was anger. It was  _ hurt _ . It was everything he needed to say without a single word to speak it in, because there were no words left to speak. Geralt had already said them all and killed any hope of rebuttal. The very sound of Jaskier’s voice grated on his nerves in was that were unimaginable—so how could Jaskier say anything, now? All he could do was look at Geralt and pray that, somehow, he hadn’t actually said a word.

But the words hung heavy in the air. Even if Geralt hadn’t meant them, he’d said them, and the effect was irreversible. Geralt couldn’t even  _ look _ at Jaskier after he’d said it. He believed it firmly. That he needed Jaskier gone. But that didn’t mean he wanted to leave Jaskier looking like that, like he was in more pain than he’d ever experienced. He’d seen Jaskier take a punch. He’d seen Jaskier hurt. He’d seen Jaskier in pain, but none of it compared to the look on his face, now. It was why Geralt refused to look. He didn’t want to admit that he’d been the one to cause Jaskier that pain. He couldn’t.

As much as it hurt, it needed to be done. They weren’t good for each other, anymore. They weren’t  _ working _ . Had they even been together? It wasn’t like they could walk through the streets, arm in arm. They couldn’t dance in taverns. Geralt had never  _ really _ been able to sweep Jaskier off his feet, as much as Jaskier liked to joke about it. That’s all it was. It was a joke. Two men couldn’t have a life together. Geralt certainly wasn’t willing to sacrifice his peace for a moment longer to  _ try _ and find a life with Jaskier. It wasn’t working.

It was never going to work.

Even if Geralt couldn’t bear to look at Jaskier, he knew how bad this hurt, it was for the best.

That was the story he was going to tell himself as he turned away. He should have said something. Anything. But he couldn’t. He’d already told Jaskier he didn’t want to see him again. That they were done. Over. Through. Whatever life Jaskier had painted them in his head wasn’t real, and it wouldn’t  _ be _ real. Nothing they ever did would change the way the world saw them, so it was better to just walk away from it all while they still could. Even if it hurt.

If Geralt had looked back over his shoulder, he would have seen how Jaskier had not even moved. Even his face was frozen in that pained, wretched look like he might cry but wasn’t willing to do so out in the open. He wouldn’t give into this. He would just stand there until his legs could move and move on with his life. That’s what Geralt was going to do, so why shouldn’t he be able to do it? If Geralt didn’t need him, didn’t  _ want _ him, then Jaskier didn’t need Geralt. It was simple as that. Only it wasn’t. But it had to be.

Eventually, Jaskier found it within himself to move. It wasn’t easy, but he gathered up his things, of which he didn’t have much, and headed out on his own. It wasn’t the first time that Geralt had yelled at him and asked him to go, but that hadn’t been the  _ end _ of their relationship. It’d been a break, and Jaskier had been fine with it. They both had needed it, really, but this was nothing like that. This had hurt worse, because Geralt made it  _ clear _ that it was nothing like that time. This time, when he said goodbye, he meant  _ goodbye _ . He meant  _ don’t ever come back _ . He meant he never wanted to see Jaskier again.

It left Jaskier with a problem he hadn’t had in some time: nowhere to go. He’d been following Geralt around, writing songs for him, about him, falling in love with him. That was all gone, and Jaskier wasn’t sure where to head next. Out of town was probably a good place to start. When he hit the road, he’d pick a direction and just walk. East might be nice. Time of year, and all. Maybe. He wasn’t actually sure, but he was in desperate need of direction. Anything to get him out of this.

When he reached the edge of town, he came face to face with a signpost. East would take him back to Oxenfurt Academy, if he walked long enough. It’d been awhile since he’d been to Oxenfurt, but he had been there. He’d gone back with Geralt for a bit of a visit, after they’d really settled in together as whatever it was they’d ever been. Things were a bit different than Jaskier remembered, but he had still been quite happy to show Geralt where he’d studied all of his fine and glorious arts.

They’d discovered such a wonderful little community that had been safe enough that they could do those things that they both so desperately wanted to do: holding hands, kissing. They’d been there long enough with just the right amount of supplies that it’d been the first time they’d ever truly laid together. And what the treat it had been, to share so much and have it all feel so whole, for the moment. It was all lost, now, of course, but the memories lingered like festering wounds.

Even now, Jaskier could remember ever touch, every movement, right down to the way Geralt had pressed inside of him and made him feel  _ alive _ . Of course, he wouldn’t have that anymore. Didn’t have it often enough at their best of times, so maybe he wasn’t missing much.

As welcoming and fun as Oxenfurt had been on that last little return visit, Jaskier found himself dwelling on everything and how it had strictly happened  _ with _ Geralt. The memories of his youth seemed to pale in comparison. The people they’d met—those who were done up in such a fashion it was impossible to tell if they were a man or a woman and those who had been one but discovered they felt better as the other. It was quite a treat, really. A treat that he’d shared with Geralt, who wasn’t here. He wasn’t sure if returning would be the best thing for him, so he went west.

Jaskier was used to hiding. He would have thought Geralt would have been too, given how some people spat upon the very idea of a Witcher. Apparently, some things were just more worth dealing with.  _ Some _ things were not Jaskier and his scratchy voice, badly tuned lute.

_ Other _ people liked him. He’d had quite a fun time romping about with different highborns here or there, male and female alike. As long as he was having fun, he didn’t really care whose bed he was warming for the night. Some of them were cheating wives, some of them were men who knew the same scrutiny that Jaskier and Geralt had been under. It was hard to be anything but normal, but  _ some _ people were okay with the risky, flighty little lifestyle.

It was dangerous. Jaskier had found himself at the pointy end of a dagger more often than once, but he’d always managed to escape. Even he could see how that life differed from what he wanted with Geralt. He didn’t like the risk. That didn’t mean he was willing to give it all up, but that hadn’t been up to him, apparently. He was just going to suffer the consequences of Geralt’s decision. Somehow, he was going to have to be okay with that.

Jaskier just kept walking. When the path wound, he went with it. He probably wasn’t going to west anymore; the path had turned so many times. It didn’t really matter. He didn’t have a destination in mind. When he came to a fork in the road, he just picked a way to walk and walked. It didn’t matter. All that  _ matter _ was that he’d gone the opposite way Geralt had. Geralt had left town from the other end. As long as they were far apart, then that would be fine. The farther the better.

After an hour of walking and pathetic wandering, Jaskier wasn’t going to take another step. It had happened within the span of a breath. Jaskier had been entirely alone, and then he was surrounded. He could barely even breathe a second time before there was a knife to his throat, his arm wrenched behind his back. He struggled, best that he could, but his heart was beating in his ears and preventing him from thinking. There was a wild panic that took him, but what could he do?

This was where Geralt would have swooped into his rescue, but he was alone. He was alone. He was trapped with some unknown number of people behind him, the man with a knife to his throat, and three people in front of him. They looked like bandits, and if they were, how great! Jaskier didn’t have anything of value, apparently. What could they really take from him?

“If you’re looking for gold, I haven’t got any!” Jaskier snapped. All he had left was his ability to stay chipper and obnoxious in hopes that they would leave him alone.

“Good thing we’re not thieving then, hm?” hummed the man in front of him. Great.

“Then I assure you, you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

“Are you not Jaskier?” there came a gruff voice from behind him, right against his ear from the man who held him. “The bard?”

Jaskier’s slight hesitation was enough to confirm that he was, in fact,  _ just the bard _ Jaskier. There was no mistaking him now, and there hadn’t been, before. These weren’t just simple street bandits. These were people who knew what they were doing; they would know Jaskier anywhere, if they were searching for him.

“You can come quietly, or we can get rough,” the man behind him said. “Your choice, pretty boy.”

“Suppose it’s best I go quietly?” Jaskier squeaked. He might have tried to lie his way out of this. It would be a bad mood to capture him. But he knew it didn’t matter. Geralt wasn’t coming to his rescue. Geralt wouldn’t even know this had happened. The best chance Jaskier had of getting out was through talk, and that wasn’t going to work in a one versus twelve fight.

The bandit holding him swung a bag over his head. Then, just for the added  _ fun  _ of listening to him groan and watching him collapse, the same man delivered a devastating blow to the back of Jaskier’s knees. His legs buckled beneath him and sent him to the ground. When he landed, that same man kicked him in the stomach, only to be stopped by another. Jaskier could only hear them, and he wasn’t free to struggle loose. Another person had come over to start binding his hands behind his back and his ankles together.

“Don’t fuck him up,” someone hissed. “Ransom’s no good if the prize ain’t worth it.” They laughed. “Besides, you know the boss is gonna want a turn. You don’t get to have all the fun.”

“I know,” the man grumbled. “Can’t resist it. He deserves to have his pretty face knocked in.”

“Keep your wits about you and maybe you get to kick more than that in, yeah?” the other assured, patting the man on the back. “This shit ain’t even the final prize. Save yourself.”

Jaskier might have laughed at how stupid that sounded, but he was too busy trying to fight the pain. He wouldn’t bite down on his tongue, but how he  _ wanted _ to. He knew that final prize was Geralt—why else would they be after him. It was stupid to be so worried, especially with every jolt through his body as he was wrestled around and tied—like an animal, fucking animal. The pain was just coursing through him, and he was more concerned about them finding Geralt?

Geralt had just left him in a town after telling him to get lost. Jaskier shouldn’t, couldn’t, and  _ wouldn’t _ care if they found Geralt and beat the shit out of him. All that mattered now was him finding a way to get out of here, himself. Once they got somewhere and Jaskier could see again, he could figure something out.

For now, he was nothing more but a prized pig to these people. Someone hoisted him up over their shoulder and slung him over the back of a horse. Like a sack. Everything winding all up at once, Jaskier didn’t know what to do with himself. He was upset. He was angry. He was in pain—more pain than he could quantify. The road ahead was going to be rough, and he hadn’t even a mind for  _ how _ rough it was going to be. Just that he was going to survive it and find himself somewhere worse than he’d ever been.

If there was one thing he knew, it was that Geralt wasn’t coming after him. He wouldn’t possibly. They’d just parted ways for what Geralt had made sound like  _ forever _ . Forever was forever was forever, no matter which way Jaskier could cut it. And that was the worst part. He was trying to cut it in a way where Geralt  _ would _ come back for him. He wanted Geralt to somehow know that this had happened, even when there wasn’t an ounce of evidence left in their wake. He wanted Geralt to come dashing after him in a strike of honor and glory to  _ save _ him.

Jaskier felt stupid for getting into this mess. He felt a fool for not fighting back. But nothing made him feel worse than the helpless feeling that came with  _ still _ wanting Geralt to come and rescue him. Geralt wasn’t coming after him. Geralt had no  _ reason _ to come after him. For all Jaskier knew, Geralt wanted him dead just as much as these bandits might. That knowledge made it hard to muster the strength to fight for himself, and Jaskier just slumped over the back of the horse like the sack they treated him as.

If he just gave up, would anyone notice? Would anyone  _ care _ ? Or would Geralt be happy that he was finally out of his hair for good, just as he’d apparently always wished for. Jaskier didn’t know what was worse, at this point. Living in a world where Geralt didn’t want him or dying because Geralt wasn’t going to save him. Geralt always saved him.

Geralt hadn’t gotten too far out of town when he pulled back on Roach’s reins to make him stop. Geralt had said his piece and left as fast as he could, and only now was the weight of his words catching up with him. It came like a wave, the surge of regret. For that moment, standing still on the side of the road, all he could think about was the way Jaskier’s face had scrunched up with his pain. He’d been about to cry—Geralt knew that face. He knew the way Jaskier’s chin quivered and his lips set into a hard, straight line. Jaskier wasn’t one to cry openly; it didn’t fit his bubbly obnoxiousness.

Geralt had been the one to do that to him, to make him feel so worthless. And for what? What had Jaskier even done that was so bad that Geralt couldn’t handle it? It was the disrespect. Jaskier didn’t understand when to stop. When Geralt told him to stop, he made a game out of it. He just kept pushing to see how far he could push, and this time, he’d pushed enough that Geralt had snapped. Geralt hadn’t just snapped, he’d broken. An entire ocean of unsaid emotions rushed forward and washed away them both.

They were things Geralt hadn’t realized that he felt, and he certainly didn’t believe he felt them to the extent his words had made it sound. He didn’t hate Jaskier, so why did he say that? He was just irritated. That’s all this was. An overwhelming irritation that he hadn’t known how to deal with short of yelling. If Jaskier could only understand  _ boundaries _ , then maybe this wouldn’t be so difficult. Geralt should have been the one to help him understand, but what did he do?

He yelled. That was what Geralt did. Every time that Jaskier did something even mildly irritating, Geralt yelled. He’d never once tried a different path, so how could he blame Jaskier for not trying something different? For all Geralt knew, the yelling was the  _ reason _ Jaskier did what he did. It was deflection, wasn’t it? Jaskier had always had an easier time just smiling than he had with doing anything else. If Geralt was going to yell at him for every little thing, then Jaskier would just smile until it hurt.

If Geralt had ever learned to be kind about it, maybe Jaskier would have learned to stop when Geralt needed him to stop. Geralt could sit on the back of Roach all day and try and find ways to blame Jaskier, but there was only a half truth in that. Neither one of them had put forth any effort to change the dynamic. They were locked in a cycle of insanity. Jaskier did something that was well within his nature and right to do, and Geralt yelled. It hadn’t worked the first time, and neither had it worked the one-hundredth time. Geralt still yelled.

Now, all he could feel was regret. He’d been just as big a problem as Jaskier had been, and it took  _ this _ for him to realize it. He’d been so busy trying to assure himself that nothing was his fault in that relationship that he’d let himself get out of control and hurt someone he cared about. Really—what would Yennefer think, if she knew? She probably wouldn’t have cared to find out that Geralt and Jaskier were something. She might have even been proud of Geralt for doing something so vulnerable. But if she learned how she  _ treated _ him? Yennefer wasn’t so cruel that she’d be proud of him for being an arse, that was for sure.

Geralt tugged on the reins, his pity party over, and turned Roach back towards town. All he could do was hope that he’d shocked Jaskier enough that he hadn’t moved. If Jaskier was gone, Geralt had no way to find him. He dug his heel into Roach’s side to press him into a run and run Roach did. They had to get back to town as fast as possible for any  _ remnant _ of a hope that Jaskier was still there. If not in town, that he was close by. If he wasn’t—Geralt didn’t know what he’d do.

He’d been so stupid. If only he’d stopped himself before he said those things. All he had now was a desperate and stupid apology, which Jaskier didn’t have to take. Geralt had ruined everything, not Jaskier. Now, Geralt had to be the one to fix it, and he could only hope he hadn’t ruined everything so poorly that Jaskier wouldn’t forgive him.

But Geralt’s hope quickly died. When he returned to the town, jumping off Roach in a rush to head back to where they’d begun, he found nothing. Not even so much as a footprint. Jaskier had left, and he’d left quickly. What were the chances of finding him, now? Geralt didn’t have time to do the math. He rushed back to Roach and mounted him once more, heading off towards the other side of town. He knew Jaskier wouldn’t have followed him after that, so this was the only way he would have gone.

At the signpost, Geralt took stop once more. East was Oxenfurt, and west was open trail. Geralt’s first instinct was to head east, to Oxenfurt, and because it was his first instinct, he knew it was wrong. Jaskier wouldn’t go somewhere so pleasant, not when half of those pleasantries were made at Geralt’s own side. That wouldn’t have made sense for  _ anyone _ . There was no refuge to be found in such a place when the only memories there were with someone who’d just told you that you were the vilest scum of the earth.

Geralt went west. He went west until he realized that there was no way he was going to find Jaskier, not like this. There were too many paths to take and too many variables, and Geralt was admittedly too stressed out to think of any other alternatives to a sudden manhunt. While it crossed his mind that something might have happened, what did that change? He didn’t know where Jaskier was. He hadn’t found any evidence of him, which meant he had nowhere to go. It was getting late, on top of that.

It was best to set up camp for the night. Geralt didn’t even have the strength to return to the town for a true bed, but it was more than that. He didn’t deserve a proper bed now, did he? The only reason he’d ever become fond of proper beds in lieu of sleeping on the road in his travels was because Jaskier was fond of the finer things. He liked beds and silks and linens. He didn’t like the rough stench of leather or the way that he always managed to sleep on rocks, if he camped outside. Geralt worked hard to get them into towns and into inns because that’s what made Jaskier happy.

Geralt didn’t have to make Jaskier happy, anymore. He’d really gone and made sure of that. He’d done quite a good job of it, too. For all he knew, Jaskier had gone off to climb himself into some better deserving man’s bed tonight to fill whatever sort of void Geralt had left him with. It was presumptuous to say he’d even left Jaskier with a void, too. For all he knew, Jaskier had gotten over him, fast. He hadn’t been able to  _ find _ him, after all.

That was a trail of thought that needed to stop, immediately. Geralt wasn’t going to find an avenue to blame Jaskier for this. Jaskier hadn’t yelled. Jaskier hadn’t even said a  _ word _ to him. He’d just stood there and let Geralt berate him and beat him down with words until Geralt had nothing more to say. Geralt had been the one to start it, and he’d been the one to finish it, without so much as an ear for Jaskier’s thoughts and opinions. He wouldn’t let himself believe that this wasn’t his fault, as that was just a horrid disservice to everything, they were both no doubt going through.

Geralt, unfortunately, just didn’t know the half of it. He might have assumed that Jaskier was drowning his sorrows in someone else’s bedsheets or at a tavern in the next town over, where Geralt hadn’t made it. He might have even assumed that Jaskier hadn’t been that far, and he’d only given up too quickly to find him. Perhaps they were both camping in the grass and inevitably sleeping on rocks. While none of it was true, it was enough comfort to put Geralt to sleep for the evening.

While he didn’t know where Jaskier was, it was his mind that convinced him that Jaskier was in no worse straits than he was. It was a foolish assumption, but Geralt was already blaming himself for the entirety of the situation. If he didn’t stop, he’d spiral too far down to catch himself. Without Jaskier, there was no one to catch him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm uploading all of the chapters at once.

Jaskier hit the hard, stone floor in a crumbled pile, unable to catch himself. He wore his teeth or his nose or  _ something _ cracked when he hit the ground, but he couldn’t even groan. After about thirty minutes of travel, Jaskier had found his voice, again, and they’d promptly shoved a rag between his teeth and told him to be silent. Not that he had a choice, anymore. It kept him from speaking, groaning, and biting his tongue off to end it all a bit faster. His choice was made for him: live in a world where Geralt didn’t want him.

The men who’d brought him had huddled off to the side, save one, who grabbed Jaskier by the binds on his hands and wrenched him up to sit on his knees. He groaned through the gag and wavered. Once he was still, the man grabbed the bag off of his head and tore it off, taking no mind not to catch his chin and jolt his head back. His neck cracked from the force of it, but he was otherwise unharmed. Just entirely uncomfortable. As he brought his head forward again, carefully as not to stretch the pain now shooting through his neck, he saw just where he was.

It smelled putrid, this old place. It was made of crumbling stone and rot, with only enough torches to provide light to see. There were no windows, and the chill in the air left Jaskier thinking that they were underground. If they were underground, there was no way Geralt was going to find him. As if Geralt was even going to look for him.

Someone approached, then, off from the shadows. There was the creaking of an old wooden door on older metal hinges, followed by the slam of it falling shut with a gust of wind. The woman came a moment later, dressed rather sharply for her station. She had sleek hair and a scar down the side of her face, which Jaskier found oddly fitting. Criminal leaders didn’t tend to come in the pretty variety, which is why Jaskier stuck to the rich.

“Release his gag,” she said. “I have some questions for the little dandelion.”

The man ripped the gag out of Jaskier’s mouth, and he hadn’t a moment to himself before the woman was kneeling in front of him and grabbing hold of his chin. He might like to think that, if his hands were free, he would be able to take her in a fight. The strength in her grip alone said otherwise. The smirk on her lips said Jaskier was a fool. He was ready to believe her. He couldn’t even bull his head away from her, and the slightest struggle had her redoubling her grip and yanking him close, so that their breaths mingled.

“Where’s the Witcher?” she asked, softly. “If you tell me, and you’re tolerable, I give you my word you’ll have your life when we’re through.”

Jaskier stared at her, his teeth grinding together in his effort to keep his mouth closed. Why he felt this intense need to protect Geralt, after all of the things he’d said, was beyond him. He was still going to do it, and that hadn’t pleased the woman. She moved her grip on his chin that her fingers would reach into the hollows of his cheeks. She pressed, wrenched, and his jaw was forced open.

“I asked you a question,” she hissed. “ _ Where _ is your Witcher?”

Her grip was weaker like this, so Jaskier wrenched his head out of her grasp and shuffled back just an inch. “I haven’t a clue,” he spat. “We parted ways this morning. If you’re looking for him, then better luck with someone—”

She struck him so hard across the face that his teeth dug into his cheek and he hit the ground hard. There was blood on his lips from the force of her hand, but she didn’t use the rest of her anger on him. She turned to her crew with a rage unlike anything Jaskier had ever seen. Until recently, anyway. It reminded him of Geralt.

“You fucked up the  _ one _ thing you had to do!” she shouted. “What’s the point in taking the bard if the Witcher wasn’t there to see it!? There’s no reason for him to come here, now. He doesn’t  _ know _ .”

“We still got what you wanted,” one of them argued back.

“Oh, great,” she scoffed. “We’ve got the fucking tart, that’s what I’ve always wanted, thank you. With no Witcher to follow, he’s  _ worthless _ .”

She turned back to Jaskier, dropping down to her knee so she could grab him by the collar of his shirt. She wrenched him back up to his knees and drew forth a  _ knife _ . Jaskier started to panic before he even knew what she intended to do with it. He was bound, all but helpless, and she had a knife. She’d  _ just _ got done saying how he was worthless to them for only the fact that Geralt didn’t know he’d been kidnapped. Did she intend to kill him? Jaskier surely thought she did, and he struggled to get away from her knife.

She threatened his eye, nearly pressing the point of the blade right into it. Then, she changed her mind. She dragged that pointy end over Jaskier’s cheek, not hard enough to cut, and ran over his ear. Once again, she changed her mind. She trailed down his neck, into the open collar of his shirt, and hummed to herself. There were apparently a lot of choices.

“What would frighten the Witcher the most?” she asked. “Would he like to see your finger? Your ear? Perhaps your nose? You don’t need that, do you?” she hummed cutely. “Maybe your tongue? What good is a bard without his tongue?” she leaned in closer.

“I-I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” He stammered, still struggling to get out of her hold.

“Oh? And why not?”

“I-it’s quite obvious, isn’t it?” he grinned nervously. “H-he hates my singing, you know. He finds it detestable. I-I rather think if you show him my tongue, he’d be quite glad of it.”

“Oh, isn’t that just a shame,” she cooed. “Poor little boy not getting his appreciation, is he? Must be hard.”

Jaskier swallowed. He didn’t have anything to say in response to that; it was becoming the day’s trend for Jaskier to be left uncomfortably speechless.

“You must crave it,” she hissed. “Look at you, trying to protect him. What good will it do? You want to save him the pain of knowing you’ve been cut? Or is it that you fear what we’ll do when he comes?”

“He won’t come for me,” Jaskier croaked.

“He sounds sad,” one of the men said. “This might have been a better grab than you thought, Harp.”

Harp, as was apparently the name of the woman, grinned. “I think you might be right. What sort of a boy is sad when someone like the Witcher doesn’t come for him?” she asked, leaning in close. She went from grabbing Jaskier by his shirt to wrapping her cold hand, long fingers, around his throat. “The kind who likes his cock,” she said, clicking the last sound hard in her throat.

The rest of her men burst into a laughter that had Jaskier’s face turning a solid red. Harp worked quickly, cutting a strip from his shirt such that the blade stuck deep enough to slice his skin in the process. Jaskier bit down on his lip to keep from whimpering, but his body trembled with the pain. She took that piece of cloth and rubbed it over his new, open wound, making him hiss. Now, with the cloth appropriately bloodied, she handed it off to one of her men.

“Go and deliver a message, would you?” she said. Her voice had such an innocent quality to it, it was amazing to see the force in her. “Tell the Witcher that if he doesn’t come, we’ll be bringing him more  _ special _ deliveries,” and she said this part strictly while dragging the edge of her blade along Jaskier’s cheek, like she meant their next delivery  _ would _ be his ear or his eye or his nose.

“I can’t wait for him to arrive,” Harp sung, moving away from Jaskier after having thrown him back to the floor. “It’s always a special day when you get to off  _ two _ cock-sucking bastards. That Witcher deserves it, too. Funny how it works. It’s always the fucking fairies, isn’t it?”

Geralt and Jaskier had been through this town before, even if Jaskier didn’t recognize Harp. He’d never actually seen her, but she’d seen him. She’d seen Geralt. He’d waltzed through  _ her _ town on some self-proclaimed Witcher business and had been hailed a hero. That  _ monster  _ he’d taken down had been Harp’s, and it’d been the reason they had such a tight control over the area. Geralt had put her beast down like it was a worthless, crazed animal.

She’d worked so hard to create her little mutant. To see it put down like a  _ dog _ had hurt her in all the wrong ways. Not only that, but with the loss of her beast, Geralt had essentially removed her control over the area.  _ That  _ had hurt worse than the loss of her beast. It took their power, their money, and their security. It even took some of their numbers, as only the most loyal had stayed to help Harp grasp at what she still had. If she could take down Geralt, then she could have back everything that she’d lost.

If getting back at Geralt meant beating up some frilly little tart in the process, then she was more than happy to continue. She wouldn’t continue herself, of course, because her time was too valuable. Once she’d sent off the courier with her little  _ gift _ for Geralt, she addressed the rest of her men.

“As long as you don’t kill him or fuck him, he’s yours,” she said. “I know he’d like that second thing. We don’t want him to  _ enjoy _ this, now do we?”

Harp left after that, a wave of her hand to say her goodbyes. Once the door slammed shut again, they knew they were all alone. With Jaskier. He was bound tightly and outnumbered. Even if he were to somehow get free, he would find himself surrounded by five men. Five men who were not only bigger than him, but no doubt much stronger. He was alone. His only saving grace was apparently they weren’t allowed to  _ fuck _ him—the thought left Jaskier gagging in his mouth. It didn’t mean they could mutilate him. Leave him broken beyond repair.

Jaskier couldn’t see himself rightfully getting out of this, not as the men began to circle him. They looked to be appraising nothing more than a piece of meat. If Jaskier knew one thing, it was to tell when someone was open to talking. So much as opening his mouth to even attempt a jape or conversation of freedom might end his life sooner. He always prided himself on being able to talk himself out of situations, but this wasn’t something he could even pray himself out of.

“I don’t know,” one of them said. “Harp was making a good sound for this little thing being tart, but did he ever own up to it?” The man stopped and knelt down before Jaskier. “Is there anything you want to admit?”

“Nothing more than I’d  _ really _ like to go home,” Jaskier responded. He regretted it the second he said it. The man struck him across the face, but with the sudden grip around his throat, Jaskier didn’t fall this time. It somehow made the strike harder. Shooting pain up the side of his face followed again by another slap.

“Everyone talks when you give them a good enough reason,” the man said.

They were decent enough, if decency was the cause, to leave Jaskier in his smalls as they ripped his clothes straight from his body, cut his boots off and tore at his trousers. There was no mind paid for the blade against his skin, and as Jaskier lay there whimpering on the cold, stone floor, he dripped in blood from the senseless number of cuts that now spanned his body. There was a long one on his thigh from where they’d so crudely cut the length of his trousers, and it was there that a man shoved the dirty underside of his boot just to hear Jaskier cry out.

_ That _ , they decided, was  _ fun _ . Kicking Jaskier. Digging their dirty boots into his wounds and tearing them open further. Tearing at his skin. Ripping cries right from his throat. He was face down in this muck and dirt; there was a faint smell of  _ piss _ somewhere—and god. For what? To hear him  _ admit  _ that he didn’t mind a cock down his throat? As if Jaskier really believed admitting to it was going to somehow make this better.

But just how the idea seemed like a sliver of hope. Every beat of a boot into his already shattered ribs was another thing that he couldn’t take. He was sure, by now, his nose was broken. Bleeding. And there came a boot connected right with the column of his neck, and Jaskier shouted. His voice broke and stuttered in a sudden wretch through his throat.

“And that’s how you make the pretty boy sing,” one of them laughed. “Bards should sing, shouldn’t they? Won’t tell us what we need to hear, so  _ sing _ , pretty thing!”

Jaskier couldn’t make so much as more than a gasping, spitting noise from the back of his throat. The wind had been knocked out of him. His vision was blurry with the blood that dripped down—a cut? A broken eye socket? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he wanted, desperately to do what they asked if only that would make it stop. His voice failed him, now, and all he could do was gargle as the man grabbed him by his neck and pulled him up to where his knees no longer touched the floor, but how he struggled to try and find his footing.

“Shouldn’t bards smile, too?” the man asked. “All this one does is whimper and cry like a wench. If Harp wasn’t so concerned about keeping the prize put together, might even be nice to hear you scream like one.”

Jaskier shook his head, and that only landed him back on the floor. The man drew a knife, then, and pressed it right to the side of Jaskier’s face. He peeled it down, listening to the whimpering cries Jaskier made until the blade pulled away at the edge of his jaw. The knife landed again at his collarbone, following the subtle v shape of it down to where his chest creased. The followed the line of Jaskier’s pectoral and carved beneath it, until he reached the edge of his ribs. There, he pressed straight into Jaskier’s body, right between his ribs, but not so deep that he would puncture anything  _ important _ —no.

Just to leave a gaping wound in Jaskier’s side. Just to watch the blood pool beneath him and hear his screams, his wretched voice. It might have been another funny threat to cut out his tongue, but he wouldn’t sing after this, anyway. All the screaming. The crying.

“What a waste,” the man sneered. “Could have been such a pretty woman. Make you much more  _ useful, _ wouldn’t it?” he laughed. “Nothing better than a warm cunt to sink into. Perhaps I should make you one?”

The man didn’t hesitate with his threat, catching his knife on the waist of Jaskier’s smalls. Jaskier couldn’t even cry out for him to stop before the man was cutting his last bit of decency from him, leaving him naked on the floor, still bound and shivering like a dog. He pressed his dagger into Jaskier’s pelvis, taking no moment of quarter before he pressed it right into Jaskier’s skin and heard him  _ scream _ .

“Stop—stop!” Jaskier croaked.

“Let me  _ hear  _ it,” the man threatened, pressing deeper.

“I-it’s just as she said!” Jaskier cried. “I like men! I sleep with men! I-I let them shove their cocks down my throat, and I-I,” Jaskier nearly choked on the blood building in his mouth, but when the man pressed that knife into him again, he found the will to keep going. “I s-spread my legs for them and let them use me—!”

“Was that so hard?” the man cooed. He pulled his knife away and laid it alone Jaskier’s cheek instead. “Did you let that Witcher do it too? Did you beg him for it?”

Jaskier gave a weak nod. It was his only chance to make it stop.

“String him up,” the man said.

“Wait—wait, no, nonononono—” Jaskier cried out, but he didn’t have the strength or hands or leverage to get out of the hands of the men that grabbed him. “You said—!”

“I said,  _ string him up _ ,” the man hissed, the tip of his blade to Jaskier’s throat. That shut him up, quickly.

He didn’t have the strength to fight it. It took all of them to do as the first man had bade. Jaskier just let it happen, too, and it burned him with shame. He should have rather died fighting them off than just allow them to do as they did, but he  _ let _ them. It didn’t take long before he was hanging from the ceiling, strung high enough that his toes could only barely touch the ground. He was naked. He was humiliated. He was  _ bleeding _ . And through it all, he had one hope—that Geralt would still come for him. If he did, he may even not detest Jaskier for the sight of him.

As if it couldn’t possibly be worse, there was a fire set. It wasn’t for the fear alone of the blades in the fire, but it was for the fact that those blades were pressed to  _ him _ . The searing pain of the burns, the slice of his flesh and the fire that followed. Jaskier couldn’t even find the strength to  _ scream _ , but how his body tried. How he shouted ad screamed as the burns spread over him, the pain spread through him. There was nothing that he could do but hang there and writhe in his pain.

Geralt hadn’t moved far from the town, only to the next one over. He’d found that after a day like that, he hadn’t particularly sought to go much further. There was plenty of work to find in tiny towns with large problems. Those same towns tended to have good taps, too. Geralt could use a drink, and no one was going to judge him for it. They didn’t have to welcome his presence as openly as others might, but they did certainly have to welcome his coin. It would be a fool of a shopkeeper who wouldn’t.

He found himself quite comfortable on a stool against a counter, a proper sized tankard in front of him. Maybe it was a bit early for this, but he didn’t exactly need clarity to be good at what he did. He was just too good. But with the memory of yesterday still riding high, he might have found himself ready to falter. A drink or two, enough to  _ forget _ , would probably make him better at his job, anyway. That was the story he told himself. Geralt found himself in quite a need of stories, lately. Enough to justify his awful predilection.

His pitiful enjoyment was cut short, because it always was. If it wasn’t Jaskier and his—which wouldn’t happen again, he reminded, it was  _ this _ . It was someone who believed he was worth all of Geralt’s time, blade, and attention. Always hot to sit right down next to him as if Geralt had invited him for a drink and they were pals. It was ridiculous. Geralt could usually grin and bear it, listen to the fucker and send him on his way if his cause wasn’t worth even Geralt’s acknowledgment. But he struggled to even think to do such a thing. He wanted this new companion gone.

Geralt couldn’t so much as speak, let alone yell. There were no words. He’d misjudged it all. That man hadn’t come for his time. That man came with a smirk on his face and something to slam down on the counter in front of Geralt.

“Someone’s got a message for you,” he said, a grin far too sickly along his face. “Hoping its well received. Wouldn’t want the work to go to waste.”

The man removed his hand, and Geralt didn’t need to stare long to know what it was. He’d know the fine silk of Jaskier’s clothes anywhere. And he knew the sight of blood. The man looked well on his way to leave, believing that Geralt would be overcome by something as foolish and grief and swipe for the fabric, wondering whatever could have possibly become of his companion. Instead, Geralt rose from his stool in a nightmarish fury and grabbed the man by his throat. He didn’t stop with his lunge until the man was pressed hard into the nearest wall and the tavern had gone silent at the violence.

“Oi!” the tavern keeper shouted. “Take it outside, gentlemen, or no drinks for either of ye!”

Geralt gritted down his teeth and complied, only because he thought it might be better to do this outside. Less mess to clean up. He dragged the man from the wall and out the door behind him. They didn’t go far. Just to the side of the building where Geralt could slam him up against something solid once more, enough to make his head knock back and his eyes daze.

“The bard!” Geralt shouted. “What did you do to him!?”

The man laughed. “Nothing the little tart didn’t deserve.”

“Choose your next words  _ very _ closely,” Geralt warned.

The man spat in Geralt’s face. “If you’re lucky, he’s still breathing. Little bitch is probably good for a fuck, isn’t it? That’s all those whores are worth—man who spreads his legs for another man is just looking to get fucked, don’t you know? By the time you find him, bet he’s made himself happy as their new little whore—”

Geralt was overcome with such a rush of  _ rage _ that he didn’t even bother to hear the rest of it. He delivered a punch hard enough to shatter the man’s jaw, and the man crumbled to the ground. Geralt wrenched him right back up, slamming him back into the wall of the tavern.

“Where did you take him?!”

This time, when the man spat, he spat  _ blood _ .

“I said— _ where did you take him _ ?!” Geralt shouted.

“Why so hot for a little flame like that? You one of them too?” the man laughed. “Bunch of fucking—”

Geralt punched him square in the face again. And again. And  _ again _ , until the man collapsed down to the grass and wasn’t breathing properly anymore. His eyes were back in his head; if he ever woke up, he certainly wasn’t going to do any talking. Geralt should have thought about that before he beat his nose in, but it was almost  _ calming _ to be able to knock those words right out of his mouth. He didn’t know anything. He had no right to be talking about people like that.

Especially not Jaskier.

He had to get him back. Geralt dropped down to his knees to search the man for anything that might tell him where they’d gone. Anything that could point him in the right direction. If this man came from a pack of people who believed just like he did—Jaskier didn’t have much longer. Even if they were waiting for Geralt to get there, Jaskier’s presence was enough to bring him. Jaskier didn’t rightfully have to be  _ alive _ when he got there, and he was going.

It was a trap. He knew it was a trap. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to tell him Jaskier had been taken. Otherwise, this man most likely wouldn’t have been carrying a missive that would lead Geralt straight to him. Whoever sent him must have had some foresight to know that Geralt would beat the shit out of him. The missive ensured that, message or not, Geralt would arrive for their trap.

However, walking right into a trap was usually advantage. It allowed Geralt to know that this was a trap. Maybe he didn’t have time to go and secure himself some backup, as much as he’d like to travel cross-country and ask Yennefer to assist him—might have been a worse idea than a better one, anyway—but he did have the element of knowledge. He knew what he was walking into, so he could be better prepared for it. He’d ensure he was well-stocked, as that was the only way he was going to make it through this. He had no intentions of learning the terrain and finding the best way in or trying to conceal himself.

Jaskier didn’t have that kind of time. Geralt didn’t have that kind of patience. Nobody was going to save Jaskier, which left it to him. A selfish thought followed that, if he were to save Jaskier, maybe Jaskier would be more prone to accepting his apology. It was awful, really. The first thing Geralt needed to worry about was getting there. The second thing was just whatever the second thing would be; he’d figure that out when he got there. The final thing he needed to worry about was making sure Jaskier was okay.

He’d get him to a healer. To a doctor. A medicine man. Hell, maybe he’d cut out the middleman and just take Jaskier straight to Yennefer. He would risk whatever shouting she gave him, in the meantime. Hopefully, she would keep it to herself. He could just tell her everything at once, apologies and whatever else might have been worth it. It was hard to think with death hanging over his head. All he could do was hope that he hadn’t killed Jaskier. He’d accidentally nearly done it once, already. He couldn’t do it a second time. Not if this second time meant he might already be dead.

Geralt pulled himself up onto Roach’s back. He took one final moment to ensure he had the one thing he needed. The little black potion was resting safely in his bag. It’d be what got him through bursting down the front door and killing  _ anyone _ who tried to stop him. He could already feel it, some placebo effect. The racing of his pulse, the sharpening of his vision. He breathed harshly and set Roach off down the road. West. Towards this old broken castle. He could already see it—old bandits hiding in the basement of the rubble.

He didn’t care. As long as he found Jaskier  _ alive _ , that was all that mattered. The rest of them be damned. Geralt be damned, himself. He’d done this. It was his fault. He was the only one who could  _ undo _ it. If Jaskier was already dead—Geralt would never forgive himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I don't have any self control.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed the wild ride!

Arriving at what couldn’t be more than the bones of an old stronghold or tower or  _ something _ was just the first indicator that Geralt had arrived. That was all he cared about. He left Roach within walking distance of the crumbling stone, just far enough out of sight that, should any brigands escape, they wouldn’t see his horse and get any ideas. Then, the potion. He downed it all in a single gulp, standing there for long enough that he could feel the liquid seep straight into his veins and fill him with a rush.

He really didn’t need it. Not for something like this. It was as simple as waltzing in and killing every rat-bastard that he saw. He didn’t need the extra shot of stamina, speed, and strength for that. But he  _ wanted _ it. He didn’t just want them dead; he wanted to rend their skin from their bones and watch them melt into the stone. Those words the man in town had spoken were still ringing in his ear—that somehow Jaskier  _ deserved _ this because he enjoyed the company of men.

Geralt would kill all of them, and he wouldn’t think about the implications. Sometimes, it was an acceptable reaction to the world to do the things a monster does, so long as he did not become the monster, when he was through.

He brandished his sword and took his first step into the crumbled castle. He had no way to know what was waiting for him, down below the surfaces. But he didn’t care. It was in these moments that it always rang out to him—the stories that Witcher’s had no emotions. If this wasn’t  _ emotion _ , he didn’t know what it was, but he was sure he’d be better off without it. This was making him reckless and stupid, and the worst part of it was he didn’t  _ care _ how reckless and stupid he was being. Because Jaskier was down there, and Jaskier needed him.

Finding the entrance into the lower levels wasn’t hard. It wasn’t covered up like he might have assumed, given that it was a trapdoor embedded in the stone. They were inviting him. Welcoming him down to try and claim his prize, and he was going to accept that invitation. Geralt wrenched the door open, letting it clang against the floor to announce his presence. Then, he jumped down.

Geralt hit the floor with a well-timed roll and was up to his feet, in a flash. He gripped the hilt of his sword harder and started to walk. He walked fast, quickly, his eyes darting from side to side to see what he could see. He could  _ smell _ the piss and the blood and the horror. It led him right to the first room, where there were several men pouring over what little coin they seemed to have. Geralt didn’t even given them the moment to respond; he might have otherwise asked them questions to learn where he was going, but he’d figured it out.

Heads rolled and coin was stolen. It wasn’t really stealing if he’d killed them for it, was it? It didn’t matter. He kept going. He followed the putrid smells and the ringing heartbeats he could hear. Each all so different, each about to fall for what they’d done. Geralt didn’t care.

His footsteps were loud and echoed, just another indicator that he was  _ here _ . A challenge for them to come find him. Oh, they could come in droves and waves, and Geralt would destroy them all. He’d cut them all down and take care of this problem. It was a horrid, sickly little problem that needed to be dealt with. These people were nothing but a scourge. If Geralt could have somehow known to kill them before, he would have.

He recognized the place, of course. He knew the job that had taken him here. He couldn’t help but wonder about the connection as he felled another man. Another woman who flung towards him with pointed sword and dagger. He cut them all down. One by one with a swing of his sword, a loud yell. Some of them were better than others and stopped him in his tracks long enough to clash swords. Roll to the side. Dodge, kick,  _ slice _ . Dead.

Dead. Another one. Gone. Dead. Nothing was going to stop Geralt. He was leaving a literal trail of bodies behind him, weaving his way around the corridors like he did. He didn’t know where he was going, which left him with one option: search every single room, every hall, and every cranny. That meant he would leave no stone unturned and no brigand alive. He’d find Jaskier, and he’d kill all the bastards in the process. It was a perfect plan. Maybe it had its kinks, but the details wouldn’t serve either of them now.

It had taken two flights of stairs and one very sturdy door before Geralt found his worst fear come to life.  _ Five  _ men, finding their laughs and joys through torture. Geralt had seen that time and time again—monsters were just as easily found in men as they were in beasts. But this. This sight. This horrid awful thing in front of him where  _ Jaskier _ was hanging from the ceiling like a rotten piece of meat; his flesh was torn, he was bleeding, and any new thing that happened didn’t even so much as rouse a scream from him.

Was he dead?

He couldn’t be. There was valiant proof right in front of him like he could still hear Jaskier’s weak heart beating right against his chest. Still, the fear persisted. Like his senses were playing games with him. The beat wasn’t real. The  _ smell _ wasn’t there, heavily masked in everything else. Believing Jaskier to be alive without a shadow of a doubt, now, would only slow his blade.

Geralt had seen all the horror straight through the window of the door. He stepped back and, with a great shout, broke his way through the door. It splintered under the weight of his body and slammed into the wall. Something metal flew from it and clattered off through the room—all eyes were on him.

“Our guest has finally arrived!” Harp squealed, jumping up to her feet. “And just in time! I don’t think our little tart here will last much longer. What took you so long, Witcher?”

“Let him go,” Geralt growled.

Harp’s feigned joy fell right off her face. She snapped her fingers and collapsed back into her chair. The five men suddenly turned on Geralt, their already bloodied weapons brandished towards him. He didn’t fear them. He could see what cowards they were to face a bound man. They wouldn’t last a moment in a true battle, and he would give them one. With the five of them as his opponents, he figured the odds were evened, even if there was no way he could lose this.

He surged forward, going straight to the offensive. He crossed blade and blade again with the two men who dared face him first, while the other three circled round like they might be able to overpower him. All it took was some flourish, a spin of the heel and knocking blades. The sounds echoed out. The grunting, the metal clashing. They were skilled fighters; Geralt would give them that and nothing more. They weren’t  _ as _ skilled as he was.

The first one fell with a swipe of steel through his chest, and Geralt didn’t even stay to watch him hit the ground. He turned, immediately, to the next man. He followed their scents, the sounds of their hearts beating rapidly with  _ fear _ . He faced one and held the others off in the meantime. A flurry of attacks, of parries. Dodging to the side, surging forward with a renewed attack. Power. Speed. He had everything these brigands didn’t, and it would come to his advantage.

The only worry he had was taking the battle too close. Too close to Jaskier and his slowing heart. It took a lot of thought, a lot of flourished movements and turning, pushing back when he should have gone forward, and forward when he should have gone back. Harp’s words had given him the confirmation he needed—Jaskier was still alive, even if he was badly beaten. Geralt had to ensure that he stayed that way. If the battle ventured too close, it wouldn’t have taken too far a swing for a man to reach out and kill Jaskier to end the battle before they died.

Geralt was in control of the flow of battle, and one by one, he took them all down. The final man had dropped down to his knees in a pathetic beg for life—the first one who had done it. Geralt should have stopped, but he couldn’t see Jaskier’s limp body hanging there in the corner of his vision and  _ not _ feel as though everyone in this hold had to pay. He struck the man down, regardless, and ignored what it meant.

Harp’s clapping caught his attention. She had pulled herself up from her front row seat to the carnage to clap, to marvel at the grand bloodshed that had just taken place before her.

“What a show, Witcher. I really enjoyed the untapped cruelty; it was quite spectacular. I always knew you were nothing more than a monster. Really, I should thank you for proving it.”

Geralt said nothing. He simply turned to watch her skulk forward, coming to a stop not a step away from Jaskier’s body. From Jaskier—he was alive. There was more than just his body there; Geralt just had to keep reminding himself of that fact. Now, it rang true as a reason to win instead of a reason to be consumed with fear and slow himself. Jaskier’s beating heart.

“The quiet sort, I take it?” Harp snorted. “I’m not very impressed. I assume you’ve come here for your little boy, then?”

“Let him go,” Geralt challenged, raising his blade.

“Oh, that’s not how this works. The two of you will die down here, and I’ll have everything I need to restart the grand life you took from me. Maybe my monster was impressive, but having killed a Witcher? Oh, I’ll be famous.”

Geralt only held his sword tighter, ready to pounce at any moment.

Harp just laughed. “Spoken like a true warrior. Let’s dance, Witcher.”

She drew her own weapon, and it caught Geralt entirely off guard. That was no normal sword. No dagger, rapier, or other she might have thieved from a dead body. It was a tri-edge blade. One hit from that might be all it took to take either of them down, for good. All she had to do was lose her attention on Geralt and turn it on Jaskier. He couldn’t fight back. Geralt had to get her far enough away that she couldn’t decide to do such a thing. He wouldn’t let her.

This time, he waited for her to move first. He went on the defensive, because when she surged forward to cross blades, she moved away from Jaskier. Geralt met each of her strikes with a block, dodging and twisting back, out of the way, until he could get behind her. Between her and Jaskier. She hadn’t even seemed to realize that was the plan and simply turned with an angry growl. She launched herself forward, her blade leading her path.

Geralt deflected. Clashed. Pushed back to keep her where she needed to  _ stay _ . But she knew how to fight, and she had the advantage of not being struck with fatigue. The potion had been to try and prevent it, but he could still feel the ache in his bones. He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop. But he made the first mistake, and her blade slashed right past his cheek. In the next lunge, it cut at his neck. In the third, Geralt managed to catch and deflect.

Harp backed up, and Geralt tried to catch his breath. There was no time to catch his breath. He was focused on too much at once. Keep Jaskier safe.  _ Don’t _ get stabbed by that horrid blade. Win. Get out of here. Survive. He was panting, sweating, and the smell of piss was all he could focus on, hanging in the air.

He wouldn’t walk away from this battle unscathed. She battled with all the strength of a veteran, a seasoned warrior. Maybe she had been, at some point, but she was nothing more than a nuisance, now. Even as she tore through Geralt’s armor with the strength of her blade, cut through him—she wouldn’t succeed. She was just as sweaty, bloodied. Tired. Tired humans made mistakes. Tired Witcher’s just got cut.

Geralt surged forward one last time and ran her through. Entirely. Sticking her with his blade until blood bubbled up from her throat and dripped down her chin. Even then, he pushed a little harder, a little farther through. He wanted her to suffer. She could have died, right like that on the length of his blade, but he pulled his sword back and let her drop to the floor in a crumbled heap. He’d let her bleed out on the floor with just enough breath left in her body to watch as Geralt abandoned their battle and his sword as if it had been nothing more than an inconsequential inconvenience.

He rushed to Jaskier.

“Jaskier—” he tried to shout. Even the raise of his voice had Jaskier wincing, flinching away, but he recognized the sound of Geralt’s voice.

“Ger—”

“Don’t,” Geralt stopped him. “ _ Fuck _ .”

Geralt did his best, but it was messy and painful business. Jaskier didn’t have enough strength left in his legs to hold himself up. There were long cuts along the back of his legs, like they’d tried to cut the tendons and prevent him from walking, anyway. Geralt tried not to look. Tried not to think that this was something Jaskier couldn’t be healed from.

Cutting him down was difficult, but when he did, Jaskier all but collapse. He cried out from the pain of those open, bleeding wounds scraping along Geralt’s armor, but he had to suffer through it. All Geralt could do was be as careful as possible, setting him down to the floor. He took one moment just to look at Jaskier—his black and swollen eyes, his cut lip, bleeding and crooked nose. His heart seized up in his chest at the sight of him. It was awful. He looked so  _ broken _ .

“You’ll be alright,” Geralt assured him. He caressed along the side of Jaskier’s cheek, as gently as he could.

Jaskier didn’t respond. He couldn’t, really. Especially after Geralt had strictly told him not to try talking. His voice was too broken, too shattered. But he looked at Geralt. He looked at Geralt with that spark in his eye that Geralt knew so well—because he  _ believed _ Geralt.

Geralt didn’t even think about moving Jaskier until he could find something to cover him with. His clothes weren’t an option, but Geralt came across bedrolls in one of the neighboring rooms. Jaskier hadn’t wanted him to go, but Geralt assured him that  _ everyone _ was dead. No one was going to hurt him, and Geralt would be right back. He came right back with blankets to wrap Jaskier up in—it was the best option they had, and even if it was going to hurt and stick, it was all they could do.

Jaskier didn’t so much as groan for any of it, clearly trying to stay stronger than he’d been. Geralt wished he would just let go, but he wouldn’t blame him for trying. When Geralt hoisted him up off the ground, an arm around his shoulders and one hooked under his knees, Jaskier whimpered. It was no doubt far more painful than he let on, but there was nothing to be done for his pain. Geralt just kept whispering:  _ hold on. We’ll make it. You’ll be okay. _

Jaskier tried to believe him. Jaskier couldn’t really believe any of this was happening. He couldn’t fathom how he was still alive; in contrast, he was sure that he’d died, because only in the afterlife would he have a dream so pleasant as to see Geralt come to his rescue. To care for him. To have that look on his face like he might surely die if Jaskier were to. Jaskier didn’t want to see how this ended, so he held on with whatever strength he could muster.

The ride was harder on Jaskier than anything else had been. No matter how Geralt tried to hold him or situate him, a horse was no easy way to travel. Especially not when Jaskier couldn’t hold on, himself, and had to rely on Geralt to keep him in place. That meant hard fingers digging into his side, his hip, his shoulder—wherever Geralt could grab him for the moment to keep him steady. And Jaskier hurt. He hurt so badly that it had all begun to just go numb, and that was the worst place that he could be.

It was like watching the light die right out of his eyes, and it filled Geralt with a panic that he couldn’t ever remember having felt. The thought that Jaskier would die on his horse, in his arms, was worse than the reality where he would have arrived at that hideout to find him dead. That Jaskier wouldn’t have had any hope of survival. This one did. This one had lived to see Geralt rescue him, only for the horrid possibility to set in that he could die before Geralt ever got him somewhere to recover.

His plan to take Jaskier to Yennefer had been hypothetical at best. He just couldn’t have a repeat of the djinn where taking him to anyone else just led him to Yennefer either. It was luck that his plan was going to work out. He was going to blame it on luck, anyway. After that djinn incident and all of the mistakes that he’d made, it was like something kept drawing her back. When he felt that tug, he knew who it was for. It had to be Yennefer—Geralt didn’t know many other strange witches. Of all the medicine and magic in the world, Geralt trusted that she’d been the one who could  _ actually _ save Jaskier’s life.

It was the only thing that had gone right. It was the only thing currently  _ going _ right. They weren’t an hour out of town when Geralt looked down to see Jaskier’s eyes closed. His breath was shallow, and it was clear he was still in some enormous amount of pain, but he wasn’t responding. Geralt couldn’t rouse him back—he was asleep. Passed out. And that could get dangerous fast.

Geralt tried to ignore his growing panic. He just held Jaskier a little tighter and kicked his heel into Roach’s side. Faster. They had to go  _ faster _ . Jaskier was going to  _ die  _ if he didn’t get him some help. It was all Geralt’s fault. He might as well have been the one to throw the punches and mark the cuts. If it hadn’t been for his stupid, awful attitude, Jaskier would have never been on his own. He would have never been kidnapped. He would have never stood on death’s door.

Finding Yennefer was the second thing that went right. He’d know her anywhere, and she was shocked to see him. She had only intended to be in town for a day or so to gather what she needed before she disappeared again. No one was supposed to  _ know _ she was here, but somehow; she’d never quite been able to get rid of Geralt. They’d only met a handful of times, and here he was again. There was no time for japes, though. Before Geralt even approached, she could see what horrid state Jaskier was in.

It was a rush, after that. Geralt and Yennefer didn’t even greet each other, the panic was so fresh. Move this. Move that. Clear that while Yennefer gathered what she needed. Lay Jaskier down—get  _ away _ . She needed to work without Geralt hovering over her like some bothered mother hen. But she wouldn’t blame him. The healing hadn’t even begun—all she’d managed to do was peel the blankets away from his body. Geralt had collapsed into the nearest seat, dropping his head into his hands.

“I can’t lose him,” he grumbled, but there was something sadder hidden behind the gruffness of his voice.

Yennefer didn’t need to hear the rest. She understood, and she’d do everything that she could to save Jaskier.

It took hours.

Hours.

Long and painful, horrid hours. Geralt should have rested. He should have gone out for a walk, some food or something to drink. Instead, he barely managed to find the strength to peel his armor off. He had his own wounds that he should have attended to, but he didn’t  _ care _ . All he could do was sit there and watch Yennefer work. It was a slow process. Hours. Much like watching the heart learn to beat again. But the pain was worth it. Jaskier was breathing better. His breath wasn’t strong, but nor was the heart.  _ He _ wasn’t strong. But he was better. It meant that this was working.

He wasn’t going to die. Jaskier was going to make it through this, even if it took him months to fully recover. He’d be able to walk. He’d be able to play his lute. He’d be able to  _ sing _ . Geralt had never once thought he’d miss the sound of Jaskier’s songs, but he did. He missed it all, from the annoying japes to the badly crafted lines to the fully crafted songs that people loved. It’d all come back. Even if it took months. Yennefer assured him.

“He was out of it when you brought him here,” she said. “This isn’t the best place for him, and I intend to be on my way in the morning. After that, he’s your problem. But,” she sighed, “he’ll be alright. He won’t die.”

Geralt just nodded. He couldn’t find the strength to respond. There was too much to talk about and not enough words to speak it true. It was better they didn’t.

“I’m going to go out for a bit and do what I came here for. Try not to lose it while I’m gone, alright? You don’t have to tell me,” she said, folding her arms. “I can tell by the look on your face.”

Geralt nodded, once more. He waited until Yennefer left before he stood up, pulling his chair closer to the bed where Jaskier laid, still currently motionless. He was breathing, but his eyes were closed. He hadn’t woken up yet. Yennefer’s assurance that it was  _ okay  _ he hadn’t woken up yet didn’t feel like much. She could say that he was just resting; his body had been through a lot, and that took up a lot of energy. Geralt still wanted to see him awake. He needed  _ proof _ that he was alright.

He sat back down in his chair, close enough that he could lean on the bed. He shouldn’t, and he knew he shouldn’t, but he reached out and threaded his fingers through Jaskier’s. His hand had been near mangled when Geralt had found him, his bones cracked in every which way. He didn’t know how Yennefer did it, but everything was snapped back into place and now wrapped in bandages. It was the road to healing; magic could only do so much, but Jaskier  _ would _ be fine.

And still.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt muttered, and the words tasted bad on his tongue. “For everything. I didn’t mean any of it. I wasn’t out of town for a mile before I turned around, but you were gone. Some bastard caught up with me later to tell me what had happened. I wish I could undo it.”

It wasn’t as if there were any wishes left to make it happen, but Geralt  _ wished _ regardless. Jaskier’s wounds would heal, but how long until  _ he _ healed? How long until Jaskier felt safe in a crowd of people? How long until Jaskier could look Geralt in the eye? How long before Jaskier would sing again, would smile again? What sort of a stopper had Geralt put in his life because he couldn’t keep himself in check for a moment?

“I don’t want to lose you,” Geralt continued, then cleared his throat. This was hard. “I  _ don’t _ want you to go. I let my anger get the better of me.”

Nothing. Geralt didn’t expect anything.

“There are things you do that bother me, yet I find myself missing those same things. There’s too much to work out, but I want to work it out. If you’d still even think to have me. It’s not perfect. It won’t ever be, but—” Geralt stopped at the slightest, sudden pressure around his fingers. He jolted, looking up and—Jaskier’s eyes were open. Just barely. Fluttering. But there. Geralt could  _ see _ the color of his eyes.

“Jaskier—”

“The whole,” he paused to suck in a breath, “emotional heart pour thing doesn’t work so well for you.”

Geralt snorted. “You bastard,” but said with such fondness welled up in the back of his throat that Jaskier risked a smile for him.

Geralt leaned over the bed, pressing his palm into the side of Jaskier’s face and caressing over the crest of his cheek. Jaskier was still smiling, looking through half-lidded eyes. No matter the bruises, cuts, and swelling, Jaskier had never looked as fine. It was knowing he was awake. He was alive. He was going to make it through this. There was a life back in his pretty blue eyes. He was in desperate need of a bath, but Geralt found that he didn’t care. He dragged his fingers through Jaskier’s messy, brown hair and leaned down to kiss him.

Jaskier groaned, a sudden wrench of pain, but when Geralt pulled back he shook his head. Bade him back down. Another kiss. Softer, this time. Nothing more than a gentle press of lips before Geralt was pulling back. He could see it in Jaskier’s face, how Jaskier wished he could reach up and put his arms around Geralt, hold him there and  _ really _ get a kiss out of him. But it hurt too bad to even shift his head. He couldn’t imagine trying to pick his arms up.

“You’ve been an arse,” Jaskier croaked.

“I have. And I’m sorry. All of this is my fault—”

Jaskier shook his head. “All in the past,” he assured. “You really don’t hate me?”

Geralt sucked in a deep breath. “I rather think I love you.”

Jaskier’s eyes dipped closed, and he smiled. He even ventured for a breathless laugh that ended in a coughing fit, but Geralt was there. Geralt helped him the best that he could, even as it hurt to sit up enough that Jaskier could drink. Water felt like liquid gold, positively wonderful as it dripped down his throat. Geralt had to stop Jaskier from drinking too much, too fast, and it ended with Jaskier laying back down.

They couldn’t stay here, but Geralt wouldn’t leave until he was absolutely sure that Jaskier could manage to be moved. He wouldn’t put him through any more pain than necessary but getting him into a proper bed in a proper inn was important. He wasn’t in good enough health to take a proper bath, but Geralt could at least help with some warm water and a rag. He’d need to get Jaskier some clothes, too, even if they weren’t as fine as the ones he was used to. He needed  _ something _ better than blood-caked blankets.

When Yennefer came back, she was glad to see Jaskier had clearly survived the ordeal. To no shorter reason than her own expertise, of course, and Geralt thanked her profusely. They would be on their way as soon as they got Jaskier covered up enough to leave. Waiting for him to be  _ ready  _ to go simply wasn’t going to work. Jaskier was never going to be ready to move, and that was only proved when Geralt had to pick him back up again. He groaned. With enough strength to make noise again, he certainly made his discomfort known. But they didn’t have far to go.

Yennefer was kind enough to help get them settled in a room. It took a combined amount of threatening for places like this to let Geralt spend the night but having a wounded man in his arms was good for sympathy points. He had a room, paid for up front because that was the only compromise they could come to, and he could stay for the three days he could pay for. They were on their own.

Geralt took care of everything. He got Jaskier as clean as he could be without actually getting into a tub. He flicked more coins out for food and clothes, but he didn’t get Jaskier dressed. Not yet. Jaskier had been through enough that, if he wanted to lay entirely still for the rest of the night, Geralt would let him. Geralt would do  _ everything _ for him, in some form of self-acted penance for being the cause of all of this. He helped Jaskier eat. Helped him drink. And in the end, Geralt collapsed down into a chair.

“You need to sleep,” Geralt said.

“You too,” Jaskier replied, his voice still a bit broken.

“I will. Over here. Where I can’t hurt you.”

Jaskier looked at him, taking the chance to turn his head so he could really  _ see _ Geralt. There was a shocking pain that stuck through him, but he managed, and he  _ looked  _ at Geralt.

“You saved me,” Jaskier said. “I don’t want to be alone. Don’t—” he sucked in a hard breath. “Don’t leave me.”

It was all he’d wanted to say. It was what he’d wanted to say when Geralt yelled at him. It was what he’d wanted to say when Geralt said that he couldn’t stand the sight of Jaskier any longer. Whatever Geralt thought, it didn’t matter; Jaskier just didn’t want him to leave.

It was the sort of moment where Geralt wouldn’t have been able to deny Jaskier anything. He was the reason Jaskier was in such pain, and he would remember that when the wounds turned to scars, and he was never the same again. If Jaskier wanted Geralt in that bed with him, then Geralt was just going to suck it up and lay with him.

Geralt pushed himself off the chair, finally toed off his boots, and shed his shirt for the night. He settled down in the bed beside Jaskier, on his side and propped on his elbow so he could see him. He was going to keep a healthy distance between them for any sort of shifting in the night, but he could still take a final moment to  _ look _ at Jaskier. Under the bruises, cuts, and swelling, Jaskier was still there, somewhere. It was in the way he tried to offer Geralt that cheeky, stupid little smile he always had.

“Say it again,” Jaskier said, clearly having realized that he had Geralt around his finger for the moment.

“What?” Geralt groaned.

“That you love me.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. He leaned forward, as close as he would dare, and pressed a kiss into the only spot on Jaskier’s forehead that wasn’t bruised. “I love you, idiot,” he muttered.

Jaskier grinned, closing his eyes. That was all he wanted to hear, in the most Geralt way possible he could have ever heard.it wasn’t the end, because Geralt was right. They had way too much to work on, but it was clear they both wanted to work on it. So, they would. They’d earned one night of being able to pretend like everything was okay. Even if Jaskier couldn’t curl into Geralt’s side and fall into a peaceful rest, he would still sleep. He would fall asleep to the gentle feeling of Geralt’s fingers in his hair, and Geralt would follow—allowing himself one indulgence of resting his head on Jaskier’s pillow instead of his own.

**Author's Note:**

> 𓆏 Froge Bounces 𓆏  
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> 


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